Analytic
by Lemon Cream
Summary: Touma is a very perfect, methodical person in everything he does, even when it comes to self-harm. Sometimes, though, even he can't analyze something for what it really is. Digimon Savers One-Shot.


Disclaimer: The author stakes absolutely no claim on this story.  
>Warning: This story contains depictions of self-harm which are very mild, but not angsty.<p>

A/N: For my first and probably last non-Digimon Frontier fanfic, I have to say it's one of my favorite over all. I can't say I'm fond of everything I've written in the past, but this one always makes me smile.  
>Now with a tie-in fanart piece by Ashflura:<br>h t tp : / / ashflura . deviant art . com/ art/Comm-You-re-Welcome-276975882  
>As usual, ffnet doesn't like links to other sites, so the spaces will have to be removed in order to view it.<br>It's from the end, so read first, look later!

And of course, feedback is always appreciate, positive or negative and constructive.

Thanks.

Analytic

Touma sat engrossed in the dim light of the computer monitor, staring with utmost focus on the screen and the document currently plastered on the screen. His hands moved with a certain fluid exactness over the keyboard, performing a complicated dance without a single misstep as he typed. The stark white virtual paper was steadily growing dozens of words on it, rapidly, and it seemed the fingers could not move fast enough to match the thought process behind them. Their assault was infatiguable, and the speed at which the pages filled was almost alarming.  
>The desk on which the keyboard sat was rather plain; its only other occupants were a short row of complicated medical novels, most of which seemed to get regular use, and a single white saucer upon which sat a single cup of tea. The tea itself was already quite cold; it was clear that the intended recipient had found himself too occupied to enjoy it. The boy still, it seemed, had no intention of halting his writing fervor for quite some time.<br>However, from his wristwatch came a single finite "_beep_!", which signaled the turnover from one hour to the next. He paused right in the middle of a word for a moment to glance at it, confirm that it was exactly 10:00 pm, (10:00:03, by that point) and then finish the sentence he had last started.  
>He allocated himself exactly one hour a night to write, regardless whether or not he found himself capable of writing before, during, or after that time, and after 10:00 pm, he saved his work, and left it for the night. In that hour he'd managed to fill roughly 8 pages of material, namely a diagnostic essay full of complicated medical jargon that revolved around some sort of disease. Over the past month he'd accumulated nearly 100 pages on the topic of this disease, and he seemed far from finished. Nevertheless, it was 10:00 pm. Time to stop writing.<p>

Touma leaned back in his computer chair and stretched stiffly, first cracking his back, then his shoulders, then neck, wrists, and fingers, precisely in that order. He rotated his wrists a few additional times afterwards to get the last of the soreness out of them, and then, after double-checking that he had saved his work, he exited the writing program, and began to shut down the computer. After he confirmed that it had shut down properly and completely, he rolled his chair a few inches back and slowly rose from it. He looked at his watch, pressing a little button to light up the time, and tsked, furrowing his eyebrows in disappointment. 10:03 pm. He was late.

No more than five seconds later, a deep voice rumbled from beyond the doorway, which, from inside the dark room, seemed to be nothing more than a tall rectangle of white light. It said, "Master, have you finished?"  
>Before responding to the question, Touma said, "You're running a little late tonight, Gaomon." He didn't say this with any special emphasis or sharpness, and rather it seemed to be like a chiding reminder. But Gaomon took the remark seriously, and nodded his head shortly to acknowledge it.<br>"My apologies, Master." Gaomon knew how his master liked his schedules and his routines; he knew it very well. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you."  
>"It's fine." Touma was moving to his wardrobe to retrieve his sleepwear, and as he continued speaking to Gaomon, it seemed that he was quite intent on not looking at the Digimon. He never once looked back at him. "Tonight, in addition to the tray, I would enjoy a fresh cup of tea, please. The old one is too cold for me to enjoy it."<br>"Yes, Master."

While Touma undressed, continuing to ignore the Digimon's presence, Gaomon made his way to the computer desk, pushed in the chair, and retrieved the cup and saucer. Then, as Touma began redressing in plain white pajamas, he stepped out of the room, in turn continuing to ignore his master. He knew without it being said that Touma was still going to be agitated for the delay; now, he had nearly completed his nightly winding-down-for-bed routine, and he did not have his tray or his tea ready. He would have to wait, which not only cut into his schedule but wore on his patience. He hated waiting for things he intended to happen at certain times. Touma preferred that things just happened on time, like he always planned.  
>Nonetheless, he sat on the side of his bed and cupped his hands, waiting for the Digimon to return. He seemed very much in deep thought, and now and then he would mutter something perhaps related to the essay he'd been cut-off from. No doubt, he was still quite focused on the topic, and would still be writing deep into the hours of night had he not determined a writing schedule beforehand.<br>He knew this because he had lived it, surviving for days on mere hours of sleep week in and week out when he was studying to become a doctor. He knew what would happen if he didn't have a writing schedule: he would probably show up to DATS every day, exhausted, and exhibiting below average performance. Eventually Captain Satsuma would counsel him, possibly threaten to suspend him. Satsuma did not joke around with their health.  
>He couldn't impede his performance by trying to explain the mysteries of the past, so he allowed himself only an hour a night, and that was all.<p>

After some time, not profoundly long but long enough to be irritating, Gaomon called from the light, "I'm here, Master." The Digimon paused before entering the room, waiting for confirmation before entering. In his thick red gloves he held a delicate silver tray, whose contents were hidden by a plain white cloth.  
>"Come in, Gaomon." Gaomon obeyed, stepping lightly and ensuring the tray in his paws was not disturbed in any way before it reached his master. When he came close enough, he held out the tray, willing his master to take it, and Touma carefully accepted it. He placed it on his lap and said, "That'll do for now, Gaomon. You know when to be back."<br>"Yes, Master." Now, Gaomon sounded somehow sad, slightly regretful. His normally fierce eyes seemed softer as he gazed upon his master, and for a moment it seemed he wanted to add something. But he didn't, and in the end, he obediently walked away and out of the room again, to return at a later time.

Touma took a deep breath and glanced again at his wristwatch. It was 10:11 pm. He was only off schedule by 6 minutes so far, but that wasn't such a big deal. No use in being too upset over the wait or the lateness.  
>He gently pulled off the white cloth obscuring the tray's contents. On it, among other things, was a single white saucer with a single white cup of tea, this one steaming hot and emitting an aromatic fragrance. This item Touma took hold of first, delicately blowing on the steamy beverage before taking a small, cautious sip. It was excellent tea; Gaomon made up for his tardiness tonight just from that tea alone, Touma decided. He hoped he remembered to enjoy it further before it, again, grew too cold.<br>He placed the saucer on the nightstand beside his bed, and the cup on top of it. Then he turned his attention to the remaining items on the tray. Two single-use wrapped alcohol pads. A small tube of antibiotic ointment. A bottle of vitamin E oil. A bottle of hand sanitizer. A roll of thick white gauze and tape. And a shining silver scalpel.  
>Time to begin the end to his nightly routine.<p>

After carefully folding up his left pajama sleeve up to his shoulder, Touma vigorously rubbed his hands with the hand sanitizer, and then took one of the two alcochol pads, ripped open the packaging, and grasped it between two fingers. He inspected his left tricep carefully, both the top and the lower side, to determine the best place. On the underside of his arm, a few inches from his armpit, he noticed that there was still a plain bandage clinging to his skin, one he'd forgotten about over the past few days. He would have to remember to remove it and redress it if necessary; the cut at that point was about a week old, and wasn't anything to be concerned about, but he couldn't forgo proper maintenance due to complacency. The older wound would be tended to first thing tomorrow morning.  
>However, the top of his tricep was flawless and quite unmarked. There, he decided.<p>

With the alcohol pad, Touma brushed all along the top of his tricep, careful not to pass the slight tan-line just visible in the light flooding in from the door. None of this could go past that line; that line meant going past the sleeve of his DATS uniform, and going past that sleeve meant revelation. No one could see these wounds; it was why he only made them on his upper arms, his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs, and his legs, not necessarily all at once. No one could see; that was the rule.  
>After he'd swabbed a fair portion of the arm and the cool alcohol had dried on his skin, he placed the remnants of the pad and wrapping in the far corner of the tray, to be disposed of later. He took the second alcohol pad, ripping it open as well, and in the other hand, took the scalpel. It felt weightless in his hand, like the cold blade was a clever illusion and nothing of greater substance, although he was well aware of what this evil instrument could do. Touma stared coldly at it for a few long seconds, turning it now and then to let it catch the light and shine, and then looked away. He used the second pad to clean the blade, and then discarded it as well.<br>For now, Touma placed the tray and its remaining contents on the nightstand next to the saucer. Before he began he took another, deeper sip of the tea, and again determined that it was excellent tonight, and he really should compliment Gaomon on it. It wasn't exactly a simple task for a bipedal dog with boxing gloves to prepare a satisfactory cup of tea, after all.  
>Now he was ready.<p>

Touma held out his arm and flexed his tricep a bit, observing the arm carefully and ensuring that there would be no veins or arteries or anything of significance in his path. He didn't want to accidentally do anything stupid that would require much more than a little gauze to fix.  
>Then, he held his arm across his chest, and positioned the scalpel right above it. He twisted it a few more times to see it shine once more, and then he led it to his skin. It seemed freezing cold against his flesh, and even now, after all the times before this, it made him shiver. Adrenaline was pumping now; his body knew what was coming.<br>He waited until his hand was steady and his arm was motionless so that his cut would be precise. And then, when his grip was solid and still, he pressed down with the blade. It didn't take much effort to pierce the skin, nor to draw the blade across it to leave a clean, straight cut, with red blood oozing slowly from the wound. Immediately Touma felt a cold sensation rush through him like lightning, like he'd just been submerged in freezing water, and his whole body tingled and shuddered. At first the arm was numb and didn't seem to register the pain, but then it blossomed all along his arm, stinging sharply. He savored it, closing his eyes and reveling in the sensation as one might taste a particularly fine wine or take in the sunlight after an especially cold winter. He breathed a shakey sigh of satisfaction and, for the first time tonight, he began to relax. He felt human again, not like some perfect, flawless machine. It felt good.

Touma did not cut himself out of sadness or depression or some deep inner pain. To him, the pain was life; an incredible reminder that he was a living, breathing, flesh and blood person. He'd been surrounded by death and despair since he was a little boy, it seemed; he'd watched death unfold right before his very eyes on the person he loved most in the world, and saw death come close to the second person he loved most in the world. He would never hurt himself or do anything to potentially kill himself; he valued his own life too much. It was partially the reason he had worked so hard to be so perfect, to exceed and excel in everything he did. He hadn't met so much success in his life through pure luck, like he'd just been born perfect and smart and that alone was his recipe for success. He had just wanted it bad enough. He had no reason to dwell in depression, no reason to remain stagnant in the past. He had to keep moving forward and succeeding; to be the best person he could be.  
>Of course, being a genius didn't hurt, either.<p>

As he relished the fading, pulsing pain on his arm, he eventually opened his eyes again, and found that the wound had dripped its bright red blood down his tricep. It trailed and branched off, like a fluid crimson river, eventually pooling at the crease in his elbow. It was dangerously close to spilling over onto his pajamas.  
>Hastily but carefully, Touma retrieved the sterile gauze roll from the tray, ripping off a square of it to soak up the bloody trail. At least, the one that was an immediate threat. He would clean up the rest later.<br>Touma took the scapel in hand again, its tiny silver blade now stained with red blood. He ordinarily didn't cut twice; usually one a night was more than enough. But he hadn't really gotten to revel in the feeling long enough; having to stop to avoid a mess had spoiled it. One more little cut should suffice tonight.  
>The scalpel again met his flesh, and he again pushed down just enough to break the skin a second time. This cut he made shorter and not quite as deep as the first one, and though blood still bubbled up, it did not drip quite as bad. It still cause the same effect; that cold, tingly sensation, that blunt sting pulsing through his arm, and that sudden adrenaline rush that made his heart soar. Again he closed his eyes, absorbing the feeling while it lasted.<p>

Sometimes, when he was younger, in his worst moments, he felt he did not deserve to live. After his mother's death, after living with Relena's illness and his only remaining family's contempt for him, he felt like less than a person. He was a freak of nature that would be unwanted everywhere; shunned by his Austrian family for not being a true Norstein, shunned by his Japanese heritage for being blond, obviously a "gaijin." Shunned even by his peers, even at a young age, for being so damn smart.  
>He sometimes wished, as a boy, that he could give up his life and stop having to live it. Like maybe instead of dealing with this life he didn't want, maybe he could make some grand sacrifice in Relena's name, and maybe that would be enough to cure his sister when nothing else had. Like his life and health would be transfered to her somehow.<br>It was a cop out, he knew. He hated living with his father, he hated being despised by the family. He hated being without his mother. He didn't want to be there anymore, and even as a child, sometimes, he wished he could do something that would make that awful life stop.

Touma didn't think that way anymore. He had transcended thoughts like that a long time ago. Those were the thoughts of a pitiful, pathetic young boy who knew nothing; nothing at all. He was more than that; he had moved far beyond feeling shame because of his family's prejudices and his father's coldness. He was indifferent to them now, or at least, he attempted to be. He was Touma H. Norstein; a prodigy, a genius, a doctor, and an integral member of a secret government organization.  
>He had more than exceeded the standards; he had invented new standards. He had flourished where others had failed. He had advanced to levels far beyond the capabilities of most normal people. He was a living, breathing success story of someone who could emerge from a bad situation, unscathed and enormously successful.<br>He was the essence of the human spirit of life. So why, given all of this, given how much he abhorred sadness and depression, did he cut?

As his heartrate began to slow again, as the temporary adrenaline high began leaving his system, Touma sighed once more. With the sudden flood had come clarity and calmness, and his mind was blessedly serene. The ever-present seriousness in his face had softened, and he felt more at peace with himself. Constantly striving for perfection was an exhausting stressor, but now, he was relaxed.  
>His brain stopped going over and over the various additions to the essay it wanted to make and reminded his body that it was tired.<br>It was time for bed.

Touma savored the last of the brief, disappearing euphoria for a few more seconds before reaching for the tray again. He placed the scalpel in the discard pile; it would be disposed of later with all the other used supplies. He again took the gauze, ripped a slightly larger square than before, and wiped up the rest of the blood that had trailed down his arm, none of it, thankfully, overflowing to his pajamas.  
>After he wiped his arm clean and applied pressure to the wounds to stop the bleeding, he then rubbed on antibiotic ointment. He used to use hydrogen peroxide back before he was educated on the subject, but peroxide usually led to more severe scarring, some of which he still sported. The ointment provided similar cleansing without leaving such noticeable stains on his body. Plus, the ointment took out some of the sting. The pain was a good stress reliever now, when he needed it, but tomorrow, he did not want to be preoccupied.<br>Afterwards, he wrapped his tricep with the gauze, and ensured that it was tightly sealed. When the cuts healed a bit he would reduce the dressing to a simple bandage, but for now he was taking no chances. He did not want blood soaking through his pajamas or his uniform.  
>Finally, Touma took the last item from the tray, the vitamin E oil, and inspected the rest of his body for healing wounds. Any that were healed enough to have scarred over, he rubbed a little of the oil on them, just a dab, to hopefully help remove the scarring. Vitamin E oil was controversial as a scar remover, especially in the medical community, but he'd noticed that his scars had been less prominent since using it, so he continued to. He didn't like scars. This dirty little habit of his was bad enough without seeing those constant reminders on his body. Besides, one day he hoped to move past even this human flaw, and when he did, he would not want to remember it.<p>

When Touma looked at his watch again, it was 10:29 pm. He had enough time to replace the cap on the oil and return it to the tray, and to take one more sip of his tea before the watch, though unannounced, turned over to 10:30 pm. Seconds later, a voice called from the doorway again.  
>"Have you finished, Master?"<br>He was prompt, this time. Touma secretly approved.  
>"Yes, Gaomon. Come in."<br>The Digimon slowly entered the room and stood before his master, awaiting any additional instructions for the night. But Touma gave him none; he just sipped his slightly cooled tea, eventually finishing it. He returned the cup to the saucer, and then the saucer to the tray. Gaomon had begun shifting uneasily in the silence.  
>"I'm done for the night and will be going to bed now. Wake up is at 6:30 am; departure time for DATS headquarters will be 7:42 am, and arrival time will be 8:00 am."<br>"Yes, Master." Touma realized that, as he was saying all of this, Gaomon's eyes were shifting to the right, now and then. He glanced to his left to see what was occupying the Digimon, and found that he had forgotten to roll down his pajama sleeve. Without acknowledging it, he casually pulled it down again. He expected Gaomon to make no mention of it. But this time, for some reason, he did.  
>"Master, if I may ask, why do you still do this to yourself?"<br>Touma's face erupted into surprise. "Gaomon...?"  
>"This thing you do...it worries me, Master. I don't like that you hurt yourself, Master. I wish that you wouldn't."<p>

Touma, for once, was quite at a loss for words. This was too complicated, too difficult for a simple Digimon to understand. Hell, it was sometimes too far out for him to understand. Why he cut. Even he, with all of his brilliance and rationalizations, did not really know the answer. It wasn't just some complicated equation he could analyze for a bit and eventually calculate the answer through logic. It wasn't logical; it just was.  
>So of course, he could give his partner no suitable excuse for it. All he could do was lean closer and attempt to smile encouragingly at the Digimon, to at least give him some kind of closure.<br>"Gaomon, don't worry about me. I'm okay. I'm not hurting myself because I want to die, I do it because I embrace life."  
>"That logic seems somewhat deformed, Master." Gaomon did not sound like he bought that at all, and sometimes, even Touma thought it was ridiculous.<br>"I know. This is one of those things I don't really have a solution for, Gaomon, but it helps me. I'm sorry that it causes you to worry."  
>Gaomon nodded shortly, and replied, "Yes, Master." He supported his master no matter what he did, even if he did not understand it, even if he thought it might not be the best thing. He was a Digimon; what better did he know than his master? Master was always right; he had to trust that.<p>

Gaomon collected the tray from the nightstand, placed the plain white cloth over the contents, and watched his master settle into bed. Touma set his wristwatch to wake him at 6:30 am, though he was sure that Gaomon would probably initiate a wake-up call before it went off. He checked his sleeve to be sure that the gauze pad was still doing its job and not soaking his pajamas with blood, and then he said, "You're dismissed, Gaomon."  
>The Digimon softly replied, "Yes, Master," slowly spun around and began walking away with the tray, his eyes cast down. Even if he accepted that his master would continue to hurt himself, and he was supposed to believe that it was a good thing, not a bad thing, he worried. He still wished fervently that his master would not hurt himself at all, no matter how it "helped" him, and he wished <em>he <em>could help. He wished so very, very much that he could do whatever his master wanted him to do that would make him happy. He wanted nothing else.

"Gaomon."  
>Gaomon had reached the threshold of the door and was about to step out into the light, but he paused right before it. He straightened up and said strongly, "Yes Master?" though he did not turn his head to look behind him.<br>"The tea was most excellent tonight, thank you. It really was exceptional."  
>Gaomon just lowered his head, humbly, though, since his master couldn't see it, he allowed himself a little smile. "You're welcome, Master. I'm glad." And he stepped out into the light.<p> 


End file.
